Julie and Julia, Sony Pictures.

The blah movie notwithstanding, I was rooting for Julie Powell, a fellow blogger, a person just like me who hated her day job and was interested in food and writing. A person just like me whose blog catapulted her out of her mundane life. I wasn’t bothered by her unapologetic narcissism or her chatty blog style, even when Julia Child refused to endorse the ’stunt’ project and said “I don’t think she’s [Powell] a serious cook.” That said, I found her new book, Cleaving, one of the most unpleasant reads of my life.

Here’s the gist of the book: just as Powell finished writing Julie and Julia, she started having an affair with an old college boyfriend, “D”. Her husband finds out about the affair, but Powell decides that she doesn’t want to stop diddling D and nevertheless wants to remain married. Powell and her husband each dole out their  share of misery and abuse. Everything turns terrible, and Powell flees to an upstate New York butchery to work out her aggression by chopping up animals.

The butchery is meant to be therapeutic, of course, and  we’re steered to believe the memoir is mostly about Powell’s apprenticeship with master butchers. But really, the book turns out to be about how incredibly amazing her affair was, how incredibly devious Powell is, and how marvelously flawed she reveals herself to be. Through all the explicit descriptions of how mind-blowing the sex is with D, Powell’s regret or shame is hard to locate. The reader starts to think: “That poor, idiot husband.”

Basically, my main issue with this memoir boils down to this: why would any one care? It’s easy to trick your reader after writing a feel-good, gooey Julia Child book into basically reading your personal journal. But where is the contrition? What’s the point? It’s basically tell, tell, tell. Tell  about how you like being slapped around, the dirty texting, your propensity as a stalker, your desperation after D breaks up with you, your resentment of the fact that most people would feel guilty in your situation.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe it’s more than acceptable to write about your dishonest, regrettable past in memoir form. But to come out on top, some sort of reflection about past mistakes is appreciated. Powell takes the opposite approach and just brags her way through one crappy action after another. She lacks an internal perspective; she not only offers her husband no respect, but her readers. In one part of the book, Powell describes how a fan approaches her on the street, gushes about loving her work,  and mistakes “D” for her husband. Powell goes along with the ruse.

I almost laugh in dizzy relief, right in the woman’s face. I must look completely dazed, with hectic eyes and a plastered-on smile. D’s no wild-eyed rebel, doesn’t race hot rods or start fistfights in bars or snort lines off strippers’ asses … (much … that I know of). But he has a way of, with just a sly smile, a tiny lie, making me feel gleefully wild. I am trembling; I can’t wait to get him home.

Oh, gag. What comes through in the book is this moment really was hilarious to Powell, and this sort of devious behavior really made D irresistible. The main theme of the book rang clear: she knew she should feel bad, but she didn’t.

In a response to the overwhelming criticism received for Cleaving, Powell defends herself (albeit in a self-indulgent, victim-y way) to Slate Magazine, saying that if you don’t like this book,  it says more about you than it does about the book.  I’m sure that escaping the dippy foodie book genre was liberating for Powell, as she was trying to be daring as a writer. I get the feeling, though, that she got more out of her liberation than her readers will.

Tagged: Cleaving, Julia Child, Julie and Julia, Julie Powell, Mastering the Art of French Cooking ]]> http://noolives.com/2010/03/01/julia-was-right/feed/ 1 No Olives julie_and_julia cleaving http://noolives.com/2010/02/23/kentucky-fried-olives-3/ http://noolives.com/2010/02/23/kentucky-fried-olives-3/#comments Tue, 23 Feb 2010 18:05:49 +0000 noolives http://noolives.com/?p=727 ]]> The South is really not that bad. Seriously. It’s the home of bourbon,  horses, grits, and strange expressions. I planned a weekend getaway for my husband’s birthday to the Kentucky bourbon trail. While brown alcohol is not exactly my thing, I knew he’d enjoy it and I’d enjoy the escape from Chicago’s dreary and never ending winter.

Horse Country, Versailles, KY

We began our adventure in Louisville, a surprisingly beautiful and sophisticated city.  The 21c Museum Hotel doubles as a contemporary art museum, and its playful, eclectic design carries through the hotel and restaurant. Red penguins are the main motif of the space, and interactive art dots hallways and corners.

21c Museum Hotel, Louisville, KY

Housed inside the hotel, the restaurant Proof on Main has been featured in Bon Appetit, Food and Wine Magazine, and was named as one of “Best New Restaurants 2006″ by Esquire.  Proof on Main was developed by Louisville philanthropists and art collectors, and  focuses on Italian cuisine laced with Southern influences. A nightly special of rabbit stew served over Parmesan polenta was not as fabulous as our server promised and raved; the entire dish tasted like bitter parsley and the shredded rabbit was simply not seasoned correctly. An appetizer of Ndjua toast with melted lardo, fleur de sel and fried oregano was sinfully fattening and wonderful. Proof’s wine list, named by Food and Wine Magazine in 2006 “as one of America’s 50 most amazing wine experiences” and most recently given the Wine Spectator 2007 and 2008 “Award of Excellence,” was both accessible and eclectic.

Proof on Main, Louisville,  KY

One of the best things about our dinner at Proof on Main was the delicious bread served both table side and incorporated into our appetizers. Once we were told the bread came from Blue Dog Bakery, we added a visit to the next day’s agenda. Louisville restaurant critic Robin Garr writes that “one of the best culinary happenings in Louisville in the last decade was the arrival of Blue Dog bread and its expert baker, Bob Hancock.”

Blue Dog Bakery, Louisville, KY

Blue Dog focuses on its bakery, but also runs a small cafe that’s open for breakfast and lunch. The cafe’s simple decor, open spaces and large windows creates an inviting yet noisy space. The breakfast menu was a bit limited but our choices were delicious. We drank our lattes and watched the Southern kids flop around the restaurant, and dreamed about simpler lives outside of the city.

Egg Sandwich, Blue Dog Bakery, Louisville, KY

Poached Eggs with Prosciutto, Blue Dog Bakery, Louisville, KY

Once we found a spot away from the crazy close seats, we waited for our waiter to open our wine (apparently the restaurant recently lost their liquor license…not a good sign). We waited-and waited. At one point I was ready to get up and leave. Menus were brought, and yet no corkscrew. Finally, our flustered, overly-dramatic waiter returned and opened the bottle without apologies. Once we told him we wanted the $5 burgers, he snatched our menus away from us before we had a chance to order salads as well.

The burgers arrived-and were just ok. The flavors were there (paired with bizarre frites cooked in beef fat), but the burgers were charred on the outside and rare in the middle. The foie gras was mediocre and kind of reminded me of the prescription canned food I feed my cat. 

Kobe Beef Burger, Sweets and Savories Chicago. 

After telling the waiter that we were ready for our check, he went into a 2 minute schpiel about all of the weekly specials available at the restaurant. No thanks.The poorly decorated (no ambiance), small room made me feel like I was in the house of someone who randomly decided to open a restaurant for the night. Skip it.

The idea is simple: each month the host chooses a theme, and the guests bring a dish based on that theme. Cooking clubs have gained popularity over the recent months, of course out of the food-lover’s goal of stretching the dollar. Culinary magazines are featuring articles on the concept; Bon Appetit even offers this handy Cooking Club Starter Kit.

For our first meeting, the “Domestic Diva Dinner Club” exercised their cooking chops with the theme of “Modern Comfort Food.” What follows are samples of some of our recipes, plus some rather fabulous photos, if I do say so myself.

Viva les Divas!

Fried Macaroni and Cheese Croquettes, brought to you by Jill

Time to make: 1 hr

Almond Crusted Chicken Fingers, brought to you by Sheila (& EatinWell Magazine)

½ C sliced almonds
¼ C whole wheat flour
1-½ tsp paprika
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp dry mustard
¼ tsp salt
⅛ tsp ground pepper
1-½ tsp olive oil
4 large egg whites
1 lb chicken tenders

Preheat oven to 475 degrees F. Line baking sheet with foil. Set a wire rack on baking sheet and coat it with cooking spray. Place almonds, flour, paprika, garlic powder, dry mustard, salt and pepper in a food processor; process until the almonds are finely chopped and paprika is mixed throughout. Drizzle in the oil and process until combined. Transfer to a shallow dish.

Whisk egg whites in a second shallow dish. Add chicken tenders and turn to coat. Transfer each tender to the almond mixture and turn to coat evenly. Place tenders on prepared rack and coat with cooking spray. Bake chicken fingers until golden brown, crispy, and no longer pink in the center, 20 to 25 minutes.

Serve with a variety of dipping sauces.

Panini with Chocolate & Brie, brought to you by Mandi (and Giada DeLaurentis)

12 slices sourdough bread
⅓ C extra-virgin olive oil
12 oz. brie cheese, thinly sliced
1 (12 oz) bag semisweet chocolate chips
⅓ C thinly sliced basil leaves

Preheat the panini press. Brush both sides of bread with oil. Place in the press, close, and grill bread slices until they begin to turn golden, 1-2 minutes. Remove from panini press and places 2 slices cheese on one slice of bread, top with ⅓ C chocolate chips, and sprinkle with basil. Top with another slice of bread. Repeat with other sandwiches. Return sandwiches to the panini press until chocolate begins to melt, about another 2 minutes. Cut the sandwiches into triangles and transfer to serving platter.

Yields: 6 servings

Official Mascot: Cassidy le Chat.

We celebrated the CD release with a performance and party at the new Uncommon Ground on Devon last weekend. A post on Uncommon Ground is coming up-until then, enjoy some of my photos from the evening.

Jenny Gillespie, Uncommon Ground.

Jenny Gillespie and her band, Uncommon Ground.

Jenny at the Piano, Uncommon Ground.

Atlantic Ocean, Delray Beach, Florida.

Two nights before Christmas, my mother, sister and I popped open the champagne and looked through Lala’s cookbooks and recipe files. We found the Petite Marmite cookbook, which held recipes from the fancy Palm Beach restaurant that my parents used to take me and Jenny to, dressed identically in bright sundresses and flip-flops. We found Soupçon: an old Junior League cookbook from the 80’s, and a small brown book of French recipes from the cooking school that Lala spent time at with friends in the early 70’s.

Petite Marmite (now closed), Palm Beach, Florida.

Lala’s recipe cards, filed under “meat,” “seafood,” or “poultry,” were written either in her slanted script, my mother’s fluid handwriting or my aunt’s bubbly scrawl. A few recipes reeked of the 1960’s (lots of casseroles, cream cheese spreads, etc.) but some stood out to me as meals I wanted to recreate, and write about. I’m planning on copying Lala’s recipes into a book the next time I visit Delray.

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Je sens juste un soupçon d’ail – I taste just a hint of garlic.

Veux-tu un soupçon de vin ? – Would you like a drop of wine?

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I’ve been scouring the West Loop of Chicago lately, trying to find the perfect place to take my betrothed for his birthday dinner. It’s a special occasion, so I’d like something a little more shi-shi than we’d normally frequent. I’ve never been to Blackbird, or Otom, or Sepia; while their cuisine is enticing, one obstacle remains. Why, in the name of all that is holy, would I want to sit at a table 6 inches away from strangers when I’m probably going to drop over $200 on a meal? A few years ago, I could easily avoid a handful of restaurants in Chicago that force its patrons to engage in this experience. These days, dozens* of the city’s restaurants are taking away something that Americans typically value when eating out: privacy.

Communal Dining Nightmare.

I know, I know…communal seating is “rustic!” It’s economically efficient for restaurants; it creates a bonding experience, it’s European! I don’t need to sit next to strangers in order to enjoy a rustic meal; a multitude of the new restaurants in Chicago are serving trendy “rustic” items like crispy veal sweetbreads, tripe and blood sausage, beer braised bacon, and pickle rolls with corned beef and horseradish mustard. (On a side note, what is with this trend? Gross.) If a restaurant needs to pack people in like sardines in order to break even, perhaps they should consider other ways to pinch pennies.

I’ve only once experienced the camaraderie that could potentially develop during a shared meal. During my final year of college, I was lucky enough to live in Europe and traveled quite often. I visited Paris one weekend with friends and we found ourselves at Nos Ancetre Les Gaulois, a lovely restaurant in the heart of the Ile-Saint-Louis.

Nos Ancetre Les Gaulois, Paris.

Across Europe, in bistros and beer halls, tavernas, trattorias and tapas bars, people are accustomed to eating at large shared tables. Nos Ancetre was no exception: fueled by the unlimited jugs of red table wine, a language barrier and my reckless youth, I could ignore the couple chomping on their meat besides me. Maybe the next time I visit Europe I’ll be as carefree as my former 22 year old self. But for now, as my almost 30 year old self, I don’t want to experience the first date awkwardness of the couple next to me. I don’t want to be annoyed by the drunk woman talking about how Twilight changed her life. I don’t want to overhear the right-wing couple lamenting about the election. I just want to eat my brains, blood sausage, and bacon in peace.

*Restaurants in Chicago with communal seating (either entirely or in part) include: Avec, DuChamp, Urban Belly, The Publican, Crisp, The Bristol, Eno, Great Lake, Sepia, Smoque BBQ, Townhouse Restaurant & Wine Bar, People Lounge, Twist a Tapas Cafe, Blackbird, Otom, Feed, Osteria Via Stato, Sweet Maple Cafe, Japonais Restaurant, Pasta Palazzo, Veerasway, Lou Mitchell’s Restaurant. Comment if you know of others!

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Anyhoo, for those of you not familiar with MenuPages, its a great resource to have for checking out menus before visiting a restaurant. I’m always guilty of this and usually know what I’m going to order (aside from any specials) and how much my food will cost days before I actually eat it.

Chicago Map, Menupages.

The blog does a great job of summarizing local restaurant reviews each week and providing pontification on openings and closings, food trends, and other Chicago culinary news.

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Today I’d like to address the topic of the holiday blahs. Back when I was a real life lawyer, working on all kinds of intense psychiatric defense cases, the term ‘general malaise’ was thrown around a lot. “Patient complained of general malaise before she ran in front of a car,” that sort of thing. Everyone experiences malaise at some point, but its usually brought to the forefront around this time of year. The holidays bring up memories, emotions, and feelings that you’d sometimes rather not feel. Experts say winter malaise, or Seasonal Affective Disorder, is the culmination of the body adjusting to cold winter conditions and being forced into a mundane daily routine because of those conditions. Whatever it is, its annoying. My sister deals with the blahs by using a light box, and I seem to deal with it by alternating between being a complete homebody or a complete control freak.

It’s on days like today that I need to remember that my life, and life in general, is a gift that can be taken away. By shedding expectations of myself and others, especially around the holidays, and realizing and accepting that things aren’t perfect, I’ll become more peaceful.

If you’re starting to feel these blahs and want to break free, go see “Slumdog Millionaire,” one of the most life-affirming movies that I’ve seen in years. Jamal, the hero of Danny Boyle’s new film, was orphaned as a young child due to religious strife, reduced to begging and stealing to survive on the streets, lost the love of his life… twice… and is now being tortured by police after being accused of cheating just one question away from taking the big prize on India’s version of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” Despite this potentially depressing setup, Slumdog is the kind of movie that receives audience applause at the end. It’s heartbreaking, uplifting, and romantic. It’s the cure to these grey days and long nights.

Slumdog Millionaire, Image from NY Mag.

So keep a stiff upper lip, my friends. We’ve got a new president coming to Washington soon, people still want to fill the world with love stories, and Spring’s only a few months away.

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Choices at Mixteco are a bit scaled back with only a  hand full of selections: no combo dishes or platters here. Instead,  the menu leans towards rustic, simple dishes like wood-fired shrimp, sopes, empanadas, baby chicken with guajillo and pulled-beef chile rellenos. Mixteco is BYOB for the time being, so visit the liquor store conveniently located across the street. Reservations are strongly encouraged.

Diners at Mixteco, Chicago.

We started our meal with Guacamole Con Chicharron, avocado with tomato, serrano chiles, cilantro, onion and lime served with pork chicharron (deep fried pork belly). I was expecting the chicharron to be served on the side for dipping, but instead diced pieces were mixed into the guacamole. The addition didn’t do much for the appetizer; I found the guacamole to be underwhelming and a bit too mild. The accompaniments of radish, jiacama and cucumber were puzzling and didn’t add much in terms of either flavor or texture.

Sopes Trio, Mixteco Grill, Chicago.

We continued with three sopes (corn masa boats): two filled with chicken in a red mole sauce and one with mushrooms and a pasilla chile sauce. The otherwise neutral palletes of corn were elevated to showstopping status by a dose of the daring, smoky mole rojo, one of Chef Arreola’s signature mole sauces.

Pescado A La Verzcruzana, Mixteco Grill, Chicago.

A main course of Mahi Mahi, zucchini, fingerling potatoes and other vegetables, wrapped in parchment and then grilled, was outstanding. This is the kind of Mexican food that’s so difficult to find; un-Americanized, simple and delicate flavors with superior ingredients. The smooth poblano sauce served on the side offered quite a kick!

Enchiladas Rojas, Mixteco Grill, Chicago.

We also sampled Enchiladas Rojas: tender pieces of shredded chicken wrapped in fresh tortillas and bathed in chocolately, spicey mole. This dish was so basic, and at first seemed bland in comparison to the Mahi Mahi. But after a few bites, once the sweet spice settled on my tongue, I was hooked and couldn’t stop eating these suckers!

Add Mixteco to your list of places to try for either weekend brunch or dinner!

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